


Holding On

by LadyArkin



Series: Holding On [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Detox, Drug Use, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Overdosing, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyArkin/pseuds/LadyArkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s failed attempted suicide leads him only one way out. He’s stopped by well meaning but misguided friends. </p><p>When Mycroft realized just how bad things are with the Doctor, he comes to realize that only one thing will stop the man from ending it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Message

When he was laying in that hospital bed recovering from his suicide attempt and he’d been informed that he was temporarily being committed by his friend the Detective Inspector on a 72 hour watch, he simply couldn’t believe it. The entire thing had felt like a betrayal. As far as he was concerned, they should have respected his wish…his right to die.  
His committal consisted of a lot of drugs. They numbed him out and he was able to fade out for most of his stay. The guy in the next bed was even willing to palm his meds and trade them to John for his tray, dessert included. It was a good deal. Food didn’t hold much of an appeal after all. But, those pills did.  
But John was a doctor. He’d worked with enough psychiatrists to know what they wanted to hear. Navigating his stay wasn’t hard. He even managed to score a few extra days of easy meds and oblivion.  
He rode out his week at the hospital in a dreary haze. A few times he thought that he even heard Sherlock in the room with him thinking, shifting around on the couch, and possibly even turning dramatically so that his coat billowed like a cape as the fabric rustled sharply.  
But those dreams didn’t last.  
They never did.  
On his last day at the hospital, he laid very still staring at the ceiling. His blankets were drawn up to his chin. The light filtering into the room was still weak enough that it didn’t bother his sleep deprived eyes. And for the first time since he got there, John was afraid.  
As much as he didn’t like being held at the hospital, there was a certain safety in the escapism. He didn’t have to deal with reality. But as soon as he was discharged, John would have to returned to 221B. Sherlock’s things were a terrible reminder that he was forever gone.  
He wasn’t sure that he could face stepping over that threshold ever again.  
He used the pills that he had stashed to force himself out of bed and into a shower. Greg came to pick him up. He brought fresh clothing and shoes so John didn’t have to go home in jimjams.  
He didn’t brush his teeth because he didn’t have the strength. He turned the tap on so he could fill his mouth with water straight from the tap. He swished his mouth out just to get the dull, sour taste out.  
Greg drove him home.  
The trip was far too quick. Before John knew it, he was sitting in the parked car outside of 221B Baker Street.  
He stared at the door accusingly.  
At one point, Greg said, “Here, mate.”  
And, he offered John a paper cup. It was the kind that Speedy’s served in.  
John stared at the cup but didn’t reach for it.  
“Fine,” Greg said a bit frustrated.  
He set the cup down in the cup holder and reached towards the back seat.  
Greg pulled forward a beer and handed it to John saying, “You could come home with me, you know. I wouldn’t mind the company.”  
“I have to put his things away.” John took a long deep drink from the bottle in his hand. It was the most liquid he had in days. “Do you mind if we just sit for a bit?”  
Greg hesitated. He looked uncomfortable as he drank from his cup. Finally, Greg said, “I cleaned up.”  
John turned to dully look at Greg.  
“The blood, John! There was a lot…mess. I cleaned it so Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have too.”  
John shut his eyes tightly. Tears welled up as he groaned deeply. A part of him wanted to throw himself on the ground in a tantrum.  
“I didn’t let her see it,” Greg assured. “Sherlock loved her.”  
With those words the tears fell down John’s face.  
John looked at the white of his bandages through the haze of tears.  
He shook his head. It was a bare whisper when he said, “I’m sorry. I won’t make a mess again.”  
“John.”  
“I promise.”  
He felt sick inside. As much as he wanted to finish the beer, his stomach suddenly felt sick. John handed off the bottle and left.  
As he stood outside the building, he wasn’t sure what was more daunting. Retreat to the car. Or, proceeding inside.  
Moving forwards was difficult. Not because of old memories, but because he expected Sherlock to be waiting.  
His legs were heavy on the stairs.  
When he made it up to the landing, he walked up to the front door.  
John reached into his pocket and took his best memento from the hospital. He dry swallowed a combination of four pills guaranteed to put him in a hazy place. He needed to hear him. In the least, he wanted to feel him in the room.  
Even for a little while.  
It took him a few tries, but he managed to open the door.  
He stopped to take his coat off out of sheer habit. As he stood staring at the coat hooks he realized it looked wrong without Sherlock’s coat and scarf there. Sherlock’s hat and gloves were present. He rarely wore the hat. The gloves were an extra pair. Still, John took them and put them on.  
Sherlock had left an afghan on one of the chairs. John confiscated it too. He settled in his chair and cocooned himself in Sherlock’s things. His smell was present. It was easier.  
He dry swallowed his last two pills and slowly drifted off.  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
John stopped off at his second pharmacy that morning. He picked up yet another prescription for Mrs. Hudson and thanked the pharmacist pleasantly.  
He had borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s cart. The latest pharmacy bag joined the other in the cart. It was a handy little cart. It made it easier to carry the bottles from the liquor store.  
He got home just in time to see the donation truck pull up. He greeted the men and escorted them upstairs.  
“Start with the room upstairs,” he said as he pulled out a water bottle. John filled it half way with rum and topped it off with cola. He opened one of the prescription bottles of Oxycodon and shook three out.  
He was building a tolerance. He knew it would happen. It was only a matter of time. Ergo, the alcohol.  
It helped smooth out the rough edges. He couldn’t think of any thing rougher than what was about to happen.  
He sipped from his water bottle as he saw his furniture carried out. The boxes filled with his clothes and personal possessions were next.  
When they returned it was for the living room. The furniture, boxes of books, and the six boxes of miscellaneous kick knacks which included Sherlock’s skull and lab equipment.  
It wasn’t hard to see their lives leave. Letting go of earthly possessions wasn’t hard for him. At least until they opened the door to Sherlock’s room.  
He sucked hard on the water bottle. He wanted it to be over.  
“Everything but the mattress,” John ordered.  
When the men were done, John realized he was just as empty as the flat. Left to him in the world was: Sherlock’s mattress and pillow, his lap top, a duffle, his gun, and a box filled with case mementos…little gifts that Sherlock had given him. The kitchen contained several bottles, more empties, and prescription bottles. Most were to deal with the reality of what the waking hours brought. But, he also had some pills to help him sleep.  
It was no way to live. He knew that. But he also knew that he only had to hang in there for jus a while longer.  
When he was finally alone, john went to Sherlock’s room. He pulled the mattress out clumsily. He had to drag it. The room was tilting a great deal but he was able to drop the mattress into the center of the living room.  
John stumbled to his small pile of possessions. Sherlock’s pillow still had his smell on it. He hugged it tenderly.  
John dropped down onto the bare mattress. He sat the pillow next to him so he could smell it but not change it’s scent.  
Then, finally, he could let the pills and booze take him.  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
John got his ass kicked behind the bar that should have been his salvation.  
One of his old Army buddies had told him that this bar was the place. The point of contact for mercenaries. Former military. Hard core.  
In retrospect, perhaps it had been a mistake to walk in high and yell out, “Which one of you dirt bags can get me work across the pond! I want to kill rag heads and don’t care who knows it! Fuck our way across the sandbox!”  
The whole thing rather went down hill from there.  
It was as John was pressing and openly questioning the seedy clientele that he’d finally said the wrong thing to the wrong person. And so, John got pushed outside. He kept running his mouth as he found the whole situation hilarious. And then, they beat him with their fists. A few kicks were thrown in for good measure. Someone spat at him. John finally stopped laughing and moving.  
He didn’t feel much as he lost consciousness. Time slipped away from him because of it. But, he started to regain consciousness as two men picked him up and dragged him off. John was going to fight, but then he was deposited onto something soft that didn’t smell like an alley or piss. So he settled back and slept.  
John woke up an unknown amount of time later. The jostle of movement rocked his head forwards bringing him slowly awake. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He still wasn’t used to walking up to the aftereffects of drinking and pills.  
He was aware of the handcuffs that were securing him to whatever he was sitting on.  
John lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut, but he could see out of the other.  
Mycroft Holmes stared back at him severely disapproving in every way possible. Crisply, he said, “Listen up, fucktards! I want to join a wild crew with weapons as big as their cocks!”  
John just stared at Mycroft in confusion.  
“This was your opening preamble for the two gentlemen who accosted you.”  
John smirked.  
“I fail to see the humor, Doctor.”  
John didn’t answer.  
“So this is _‘the plan’_? Prepare for death and seek it by any means available.”  
“Greg took my gun,” John explained.  
“I take it you’re done with razor blades and have moved on to a slower means of self-destruction.”  
“If you’re talking about the pills and alcohol, they are merely a panacea to make it through the day. I know they won’t kill me.”  
Mycroft sneered.  
John laughed. “My father and grandfather lived into old age. Drunk. Angry. Drunk. Abusive. Harry’s been at it for years.”  
“And you only just started,” Mycroft reassured.  
John smiled and nodded.  
“And the seven prescriptions for oxymoron, xanax, and adivan that you’ve written this week for Mrs. Hudson? The poor woman must be near death.”  
“Takes the edge off,” he admitted. “Helps me sleep. Sometimes, I even see him.”  
John smiled. “Last night, I swear that he was laying next to me.”  
The smile faded as John remembered waking to find that the mattress next to him was empty. He’d cried for an hour.  
“Can I go now?” John whispered sadly.  
“No,” Mycroft responded crisply. “I shall give you one guess what happens next in our tête-à-tête.”  
“Please, just let me go. I’m not your brother. You don’t have to vicariously look out for him through me. I’m fine on my own.”  
Mycroft laughed.  
John had to look up since it was the first time he’d ever seen anything like it.  
Mycroft finished his chuckle. His eyes glittered with amusement. “You most certainly are not fine on your own. You are a certified tragedy. Your sister has a disease. You have a death wish. If I leave you to your own devices, you shall be dead by the end of the month.  
“Really? I was thinking three.”  
“An ambitious number that doesn’t take into consideration the acts of the violent men you are trying to engage. Speaking of which, do you really think attempting to kiss a man named Skull Crusher was a bright idea?”  
“Is that why they dropped me like a gunny sack?”  
Mycroft confirmed by saying, “All the while calling you a faggot junkie. I’m tempted to agree with the latter part.”  
Mycroft pressed a button on his desk. A door opened. John could hear the footsteps of several people entering.  
“The only comfort that I can give is that Sherlock spent some time recovering in that room as well. He hated it, of course, but it was far more agreeable than a hospital setting. As you know he couldn’t be detained by amateurs if he didn’t want to be.” Mycroft stared him down. “I’m sure you’ve picked up a few skills, so you’ll stay before you can run.”  
John was wheeled out as Mycroft said, “We shall talk when you are sober and level.”  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Mycroft was in his home office working.  
He was surprised when his door opened and Anthea came walking in.  
“My, I thought you’d gone home?”  
“I was about to, sir.”  
“Another call?” He asked. Eye brow rising.  
“Text, email, and phone call, sir. The Detective Inspector seems determined.”  
“Is that why you’re here instead of going home to your fiancé?’  
She didn’t hesitated to say, “I carried out your orders, Mr. Holmes. The Detective Inspector’s car is two blocks away. I think he’s going to want to see you regarding Doctor Watson.”  
Mycroft sat back amused. “How does he know where I live?”  
To her credit, she only looked mildly uncomfortable as she admitted, “I’ve no idea, sir.”  
Her phone chirped. She quickly checked it.  
Now she looked uncomfortable. “He’s outside. Your orders, sir?”  
Mycroft actually took the time to consider the matter. He sighed. “Do let him in before he wakes the neighbors and causes a scene.”  
She left quickly.  
Mycroft closed the files on his desk and slipped them into a drawer. He didn’t imagine that the Detective Inspector posed a threat. Still, precautions existed for a reason.  
Mycroft stood and stretched a little.  
He check his tea pot.  
The door opened.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir,” Anthea announced.  
“Thank you, dear. Do go home now. I’m sure Jeffery wonders why I work you such long hours.”  
She managed a smile and left quietly.  
“Detective Inspector, you look like a man who has questions,” Mycroft said in greeting. “Would you care for a drink? And by drink I mean tea.”  
“John Watson,” Lestrade answered.  
“I haven’t had my dinner. Let’s talk in the kitchen.”  
Mycroft picked up his tea tray and proceeded to walk it out.  
“Where is he?”  
Mycroft stopped. He turned to Greg and evenly said, “Upstairs.”  
Mycroft continued his journey to the kitchen.  
“You have him!” Lestrade demanded. “I’ve been going out of my head trying to find him! His flat’s empty! No one knows a damn thing!”  
Mycroft walked the tray to the counter. He placed it near the sink. He emptied the spent tea bags into the garbage disposal.  
“Do calm yourself, Detective Inspector. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”  
“Is that why you weren’t answering my calls?”  
Mycroft opened the cabinet and pulled out a box of tea.  
“I didn’t answer your calls because I was hoping to avoid you.”  
Mycroft filled the tea pot from this instant hot water dispenser.  
Lestrade’s tone was determined. “Fine. Now, let me see, John.”  
“First,” Mycroft said patiently. “Have something to eat. You’ve had too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and not enough food or liquid. When we are done, if you wish, I shall take you to see Doctor Watson.”  
Mycroft moved to the large bag on the counter. “My assistant brought me take away. There’s enough for two. The plates are just there.”  
Mycroft pointed at the correct cabinet.  
Then he began pulling out the take away containers from the bag. He began opening each container. He hadn’t known what he wanted and asked Anthea to surprise him. He was surprised. Seafood pasta, steamed vegetables, a salad with house dressing, and garlic bread.  
Under normal conditions he would eat the salad and vegetables dry so the he could enjoy the forbidden piece of buttery garlic bread. But good manners told him to portion out the food. Still, he gave the Detective Inspector the larger piece of the bread roll so he could take a little more of the vegetables.  
Mycroft set the plates down.  
The Detective Inspector put the tea pot and two mugs down and poured tea. Then, the Detective Inspector dropped into the kitchen chair heavily.  
They quietly began to eat.  
Mycroft noticed that once he started the man in front of him ate heartily and without reservation. A part of him both appreciated and admired that. Mycroft had always felt weary of eating in front of others. This situation was no different. He found himself picking through his food, moving it around as he did when he was afraid of indulging too much and embarrassing himself.  
Mycroft smiled sadly. “I was hoping too keep this situation quiet, but you’ve forced the issue.”  
Mycroft picked up his mug saying, “John’s been abusing various pills and combining them with alcohol.”  
Lestrade shut his eyes and turned his face away.  
“He wanted to keep his promise to not self-harm again. It’s my belief that he doesn’t want to give Mrs. Hudson or you the nightmare of finding him again.”  
“It’s the same, just slower.”  
“I brought this point up. The pills and alcohol were just being used as a plaster while he found a mercenary group that would take him on so he could end it in combat.”  
Lestrade covered his eyes with his hand.  
“It seems,” Mycroft said cutting his vegetables into bite sized pieces. “That he took out a rather large insurance policy on his life. He’s named you and Mrs. Hudson as beneficiaries.”  
“I want to see him.”  
“I’ll take you up there when you are done.”  
The police officer played with his fork. “He’s closed himself off. But he’s not alone.”  
“The only thing that I know is to do for him what I did for Sherlock.”  
“What’s that?”  
Mycroft tried to smile but it looked more like a twitch of his lips. “I locked him in a room. Twenty-four hour observation and nurses to care for his needs.”  
Greg didn’t hesitated to say, “He hated every moment.”  
“And somehow managed to set the room on fire. Twice. But, he got sober. Later, we found another way for him to keep his mind busy without introducing cocaine for the mental stimulation that he craves.” Mycroft pushed the food around on his plate. “I’ve never thank you for that.”  
“I wanted too,” Greg explained. “And, I don’t need thanks. Why’s his flat empty?”  
Mycroft twirled his pasta around his fork. “He gave it all away. I believe that he kept a few essentials. He probably imagined he’d be out of England by now.”  
“I’m glad you stopped him.”  
“I had no idea what his intentions were until my men saw him beaten by two large gentlemen.”  
Greg was about to sip from his mug when Mycroft added, “He was, I believe the term is, tripping balls.”  
Greg snorted into his tea splashing up tea onto his nose and lips. Greg wiped his face and managed to regain his composure.  
“Did they hurt him?”  
“No seriously. He was on so much pain medication that he probably didn’t feel it. Or, anything else.”  
“What’s his current status?”  
Greg began eating again. He was almost finished with his plate.  
“He is detoxing. Luckily, a week of drugs and alcohol looks very different than several months of intravenous cocaine.”  
“What happens next?”  
“That is the question. He’s right. I’m not his family. Technically, I can’t hold him.”  
“Doesn’t mean it’ll stop you.”  
“No. But the reality is that he’s a man who wants to find death. Such a man will eventually find what he’s looking for.”  
The Detective Inspector looked shocked. Carefully, he said, “Sir, you can’t just let him. Sherlock would-  
Mycroft held his hand up. “I’m not prepared to release him, but I don’t know what to do. If you have suggestions?”  
The man didn’t hesitate to say, “Tell him the truth then.”  
Mycroft gave nothing away.  
Greg rolled his eyes. “It was weird, your parents not going to the funeral. But they’re old, private. It could happen. But not this. Your voice has been steady and even talking about Sherlock.”  
Greg sat back. “No. When he was using you were a wreck. I remember how it affected you. Big brother Mycroft doesn’t gloss by his baby brother’s death. Also, you’re still speaking about him in the present tense.”  
“Detective-  
“I’m not asking. I’m not going to pry. Because I’m not stupid. But, I’m also not stupid. Tell him something.”  
Greg picked up his mug and drained the last of his tea. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll come by another time to see John. Maybe I’ll bring him some soup.”  
Greg got up. “I’ll show myself out.”  
Mycroft watched the man leave rather impressed. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had impressed him.  
Suddenly, Mycroft chuckled. He had one question and he’d forgotten to ask. How did the Detective Inspector know where he lived?  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
John woke up face down on the soft bed.  
His first sensation was of the drool that was gluing his head down. He turned his head to the other side and managed to find a dry spot.  
He also managed to find Mycroft in bed with him.  
“Ugh,” John groaned.  
“Good morning,” Mycroft said stirring his tea.  
The clinking sound pounded into the sides of John’s head.  
Quietly, he asked, “How can I still have a headache?”  
“You body is detoxing at night while you sleep.” Mycroft sipped. “Liquids will help flush your system. Would you care for tea? Water?”  
John opened his eyes.  
Mycroft was indeed in bed with him. He was wearing silk pajamas. Across his lap was a breakfast tray. If it had been anything other than a fruit bowl, John probably would have retched until he was inside out…again.  
“Did you fuck me?” John asked sluggishly.  
Undaunted, Mycroft sipped his tea.  
“That’s a real question.”  
Mycroft set his cup down gently.  
“I’m sure. However, Sherlock Holmes is my sibling. However provocative you think you are, I assure you. I have been through far worse.”  
Mycroft picked up his fork. “You are naked because you refused to dress. I’m here because I wanted to speak with you as soon as possible. And lastly, had I fucked you, you’re anus would be burning right now.” Suddenly remembering, Mycroft added, “The same goes for your throat.”  
Mycroft began eating his fruit salad.  
John exhaled dramatically. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling.  
Finally John asked, “Am I finally being set free?”  
“No.” Mycroft happily ate a strawberry. He picked out a nice slice of melon and studied it contemplating which end might be sweetest. “I have a message for you. It came last night.”  
John didn’t care to ask.  
“The message,” Mycroft said giving John an envelope.  
John took it. He opened it. Inside was a single black button with four button holes. Technically, it was simply and plainly a button.  
John lay dumbly for about ten seconds. Then he shot up. Slowly, he turned towards Mycroft.  
“You son of a-  
A slice of melon was shoved into his open mouth.  
“Do you know why fruit is the perfect breakfast food? Because it goes through the system cleanly and without causing upset. _Upset_ should be avoided because it _disrupts_ the body.”  
John could only stare.  
“You should avoid it. Gastric upset can have unseen consequences.”  
Mycroft poured a cup of plain tea.  
He handed it to John.  
Mycroft continued to eat his fruit salad.  
John sipped from the fine china cup. He nursed the cup of tea for a long time. The last gulp was cold, but he drank it anyway.  
When Mycroft was finished with his breakfast, he called a nurse to clear the tray away.  
Mycroft got out of bed. He donned his silk robe and his sheep skin slippers.  
Once properly dressed, he addressed John by formally saying, “You’ll remain in Sherlock’s room until you are well enough to return to your own doings.”  
Mycroft nodded his head towards John saying, “Good morning” and was gone.  
John spent the next three days contemplating that one enigmatic conversation, in his hand he kept the button. There was no denying what it was. That coat was forever burnt into his consciousness. He stroked it carefully between his fingers.  
At the end of the three days John requested Mycroft’s presence to Sherlock’s room.  
John sat in one of the wing chairs in front of the fire place. Mycroft took the other chair when he arrived.  
He didn’t speak, but waited for John.  
“I’m ready to go back to our home.” John met his eyes and said, “No upset.”  
After a long moment, Mycroft said, “I’ve had all of your and Sherlock’s possessions returned to 221B Baker Street.”  
“How long,” John asked. “How long can you go eating fruit for breakfast?”  
Mycroft gave a little smile. “A month. A year. Ten years. You’d be amazed what a person can do when committed.”  
John stroked the button in his hand. “Put your energies where they belong, big brother. I’ll be fine…now.”  



	2. Almost Like Him

A part of John felt as if he was getting hit on by men, left and right.  
Logically, he knew that wasn’t the case. So far, it was only four fellas that had flirted with him in some way.   
Once had been a new client at the clinic. John was doing his intake. They talked casually. John occasionally asked pertinent questions so that he could fill out his medical chart. By the time John did the medical exam the man had taken John’s hand, smiled, and asked if he was single. John had been nice but firm saying, “Thanks, but I’m in a relationship.”  
The next was a guy in a men’s room at the new curry house that he was trying out. John had just been peeing when he realized that the guy next to him was staring.  
“Nice one,” The man said with a smile.  
“Thanks,” Johns said hesitantly. He tucked himself away and walked away quickly.  
The third bloke was sitting across from him on the tube. He smiled at John, so he smiled back. They both got off at the same stop. John was polite and let the man step off first. They both walked out of the tube station, more or less at the same time. The guy turned his head and noticed him. They walked in the same direction. Oddly enough, they both went to Tesco. They made eye contact again. They retrieved carts at the same time. It wasn’t till the milk display that the guy turned to him and said, “You know markets are supposed to be a trendy place for busy people to meet.”  
John smiled and said, “I didn’t know that. But I’m not really sure that I’m ready to date anyone.”  
“Divorce?”  
It took John a moment to say, “Death.”  
“Sorry.”  
“You seem like a nice guy. But, I come with a lot of baggage that I haven’t dealt with.”  
As he finished his shopping, John felt the guy watching. It was actually kind of nice to have that kind of attention.  
The fourth one was a bloke he saw at the bank. John lent him a pen. He returned it asking if John wanted to get a drink. John managed to return the smile with a bit of a blush. He thanked him, but turned him down.   
That next day John met with Mike Stamford at their usual pub. John bought the first round and related the tale of his week of constant attractions.   
Mike chuckled and said, “Enjoy it while you can, mate.”  
“I hate to sound like I’m complaining, but-  
“You are complaining.”  
“I’m not ready for this.” John turned his pint glass several times. “It’s nice when people notice, but I don’t know if I can deal with it.”  
“He’s been gone a year, John. Maybe you should think about it.”  
John opened his mouth.  
“ _Think_. I said think. Doing comes later.”  
John looked down. He found his hand already around the button that he put on a gold chain. Oftentimes he didn’t even notice and would find himself caressing it.   
“Takes time, John. But, one day you’re going to look up and realize that it’s easier. It sucks, but life goes on.”  
“Not for me,” John murmured as he unconsciously stroked the button between his fingers.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Most nights John went straight home after work. Before Sherlock’s death he’d often go out for a pint just because he needed to put distance between Sherlock and he. But no one was home creating insane experiments and out right insanity to drive him round the bend. Their flat was dark and empty.  
He stopped off at their favorite Chinese place. As usual, John ordered extra for several meals.   
On his way home, bag in hand, John stopped in front of the Red Rose’s alley. Sherlock and he had cornered a suspect in that alley. The man would stab people at random and then run. That they found him was sheer coincidence; they weren’t even looking for him. Unsurprisingly, he’d pulled a knife. They’d disarmed him and held him for the police.   
John found himself smiling fondly.  
He found himself walking deeper into the alley. That day was bright and sharp in his mind. He couldn’t help the smile on his face.   
“Twenty pound,” a voice said.  
John turned suddenly and found a young guy near by sitting on a crate. His dark red hair was the first thing John noticed.  
“Sorry,” John said a bit distracted. “I didn’t know that anyone was there. I was just…reminiscing.”  
“Twenty pounds,” the bloke repeated. “And you can relive it.”  
John was about to open his mouth when he realized that the man had those same sharp cheek bones. It was striking and eerie. For a moment, he wondered if the man was a relative.  
John wanted to speak but couldn’t work his tongue as he starred.   
The man rose and walked over. He was tall but not as tall as John would have preferred.  
“Thirty,” the man purred. “I guarantee satisfaction. And I’ll do whatever he did.”  
“Are you a junkie?” John asked.  
The guy smiled and stepped into John’s personal space. John stepped back.   
“No. Just looking to make some dosh. Rent don’t pay itself.”  
The man stepped into John’s personal space again. This time a single step was enough to back John up against a wall.  
“What were his name?”  
“Sherlock,” John said quietly. Saying his name made John feel suddenly very guilty. “I should go. I have a lot that I should be doing.”  
And in the next minute, the man was unbuckling John’s belt. John froze. His zipper was worked and then there was a large, rough hand squeezing and rubbing.  
“Do you go forty quid?”  
John couldn’t think. His brain wouldn’t cooperate at first. It was fear that strong hand might stop that finally freed his tongue enough that he was able to say, “Yes.”  
That cleaver hand continued to massage him pulling gently but firmly. John had to close his eyes. It was easy to imagine Sherlock there after their adventure that night. Adrenaline and lust coursing through their veins.   
His head fell back as Sherlock went to his knees before him. It Sherlock who pulled his trousers down and then gently pulled his pants down over his straining member.  
John wanted to tell him just how bad it hurt. He needed to explain just how much he needed Sherlock in that moment. With the first lick, he knew.   
John groaned.  
John sucked in a sharp breath as he held tightly a second later a condom was rolled onto him. He concentrated on the sensation that the ring of fingers created as it traveled down pushing the latex along.   
John reached out and threaded his fingers through the too straight hair. He instantly missed the silky curls that should have been sliding through his fingers. Those thoughts flew out of he head a moment later when Sherlock began using that talented mouth.   
John was instantly taken to perfection. He felt loved and cared for as his every need, every wish, was gratified before he could even voice it. All he had to do was lean back and enjoy as this beautiful man made everything right.  
His mind drifted off quickly.   
It was always Sherlock. In his mind in his dreams. The man had permeated every aspect of his life. And as he sucked John down deeper, as far as he could go, he knew that he was in his soul as well.   
The orgasm that tore through John dropped him to his knees.  
He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the cold stone. Even after it passed, John still sat with his eyes closed envisioning his Sherlock. Slowly, sorrow filled him. And then the worst thing possible happened.  
John opened his eyes. The alley was just a dirty sliver.   
The man was gone. John’s wallet was on the ground, empty. Even his gad of Chinese food was no where in sight.  
The wetness of the stone beneath him made his bum feel icy. His flaccid penis was cold. When he looked down he found the condom was still on. He removed it and pitched it into one of the open bins.  
John picked himself up. He pulled his pants up. When he bend over to pulled his trousers up, the tears fell out of his eyes. He picked his wallet up grateful that only his notes were taken. His credit cards and identifications were still in their places.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Greg made one call to Mycroft after speaking with Mrs. Hudson. Luckily, the government man wasn’t so busy that he wasn’t able to pick up.  
“Do you have John?” Greg asked in greeting.  
There was a moment of silence. Finally, Mycroft responded, “My dear Detective Inspector. As far as I’m aware, Doctor Watson is in his flat.”  
“No one’s seen him in a week. As far as his work is concerned he’s out sick. I came by and Mrs. Hudson’s worried. The door’s locked. I didn’t want to break it down if you had him.”  
“No. Break it down. Do keep me informed.”  
“Sir,” and then Greg hung up.  
He put his phone in his pocket and asked Mrs. Hudson to move back.  
Greg put his shoulder to the wood. It gave on the second slam into it.   
“Wait here,” he instructed the teary eyed Mrs. Hudson.  
She didn’t seem to need more convincing then that.   
Greg walked in. To his relief he found John on the couch. He had an almost empty bottle cradled in his arm. Greg checked to make sure that he was breathing.  
When he was satisfied, he walked out.  
“He’s drunk. I’ll take care of it. I guess it was a hard couple of days for him.”  
She looked angry. She shook her head. “He can’t do this,” she insisted. “I thought he’d tried again! We both did!”  
“He also promised,” Greg reminded her. “I’ve got it, Mrs. Hudson. Off to bed.”  
Greg walked into John’s flat and closed the door.  
He walked to the couch and confiscated the bottle.  
He went to the kitchen fully intending to empty it into the sink. It was in the kitchen that Greg found a dozen more bottles. And, they were already emptied.  
Greg sighed heavily.  
He emptied the bottle and set about cleaning up. He left a trash bag by the door ready to be binned.  
Then he made coffee and tea.  
He checked the cupboards and didn’t find much. Some how a ramen noodle soup had been left behind. He boiled water, dumped the soup contents inside, and let it simmer.  
He set a coffee a cuppa on the coffee table.  
“Time to wake up, mate,” Greg called as he brought a chair close. “You get a choice, coffee or tea. Pick it and drink so we can talk.”  
John didn’t so much as rouse as he did roll over and stare at the ceiling.  
Greg got up and took the tea in hand. He offered it to John saying, “Get up and drink it or I’ll push you up and force it down.”  
John bothered to turn his head towards the man.  
“Sit,” Greg said clearly.  
Once John had cooperated, Greg gave him his cuppa.  
Greg sat down with his coffee and prepared to be patient. He wasn’t disappointed either. John was slumped into the couch. He sipped slowly but it was clear that he was still drunk.  
Greg refilled John’s mug twice.  
John had to piss three times.  
It was getting late. Greg had driven over the moment Mrs. Hudson had called. Greg hadn’t eaten his dinner yet.  
His first question to John was, “Fancy some Chinese? My treat.”  
John started to cry.  
Instantly, Greg felt bad. He wasn’t sure why. But, he did.  
“What about curry or a nice pizza? Pizza never hurt no one. It’s what you eat when you’re in a good mood.”  
He dialed the closest place. He ordered a large with all the meat toppings, garlic bread, and chicken wings.   
Their pizza arrived and John was still hold up on the couch.  
Greg gave the man a paper plate with pizza and wings along with his tea.  
Greg sat, ate, and continued to wait.  
Greg was two slices down when he said, “When you’re ready, I need you to talk to me.”  
John was playing with a piece of pepperoni. He looked at everything except Greg.  
“John, please. Talk to me. I know something happened. And, I’m really worried. I need to know what happened.”  
John sniffed. He wiped at his face. “I did something stupid.”  
“Story of my life.”  
John started to cry. He put the plate on the coffee table and sobbed. Suddenly, John stopped himself. He wiped his face and said, “I still can’t believe that I did it. Sherlock’s never going to forgive me. He’ll leave me.”  
John scrubbed his hands across his face hard enough to leave his face reddened.  
“So you fucked someone.”  
John froze. He didn’t cry but his face showed pain.  
“Was it one of those fluffy headed girls that-  
John shook his head.  
“A bloke?”  
John didn’t react except where his jaw tightened.  
“Did you have intercourse-  
“No!” John insisted. Then more calmly, he said, “No.”  
“So you’re upset over a pump ‘n dump?”  
“Sherlock-  
“Never gave a shite when you brought home some dumb girl that you were trying to pull. He didn’t even bother to keep their names straight.”  
John fell silent.  
Greg didn’t hesitate to ask, “Did you even get his name?”  
John shook his head. He looked upset again as he admitted, “He looked like Sherlock. Same cheek bones.”  
Greg leaned forwards and informed the distraught man, “That is a pump ‘n dump. It’s like masturbation when someone else is in the room.”  
John still didn’t rouse.  
“What did Sherlock ever say before?”  
John smirked, “Don’t let the twits touch my experiments!”  
“Yeah!” Greg huffed as he reached for another slice. “Sounds like objection.”  
Greg smiled when he saw John reach for his tea.  
“I just feel like I need to tell him. It’s not right to keep it to myself.”  
“Up to you. But drinking yourself blind, explain how that’s going to help?”  
“Makes it go away,” John murmured.  
“For a little while. Then you have to deal with the problem and the hangover.” Greg bit into his pizza. He chewed and thought. He swallowed and said, “Do something for Sherlock. Plant a tree or a garden.”   
“Not exactly his style.”  
“Then blow something up!” Greg insisted. A moment later, he then said, “Just so we’re clear I’m kidding about blowing something up.”  
John smiled for the first time. “I know. I’m not that crazy.”  
“Just so that we are completely clear. You need to get yourself off the couch and you need a proper wash. Your hair is greasy and I can smell you from here.”  
“I’m afraid.” John looked away. “I’m so afraid that he won’t come back to me.”  
Greg fell silent.  
John pulled a gold chain out from under his shirt. A black button hung from it. John caressed it reverently and said, “I won’t lie to him, Greg. But, I’m going to consider what you’ve said.” 


	3. Consequences

A few days later Greg sent Mycroft a fairly detailed email regarding his concerns over Johns behavior.  
The response came back fairly quickly. Greg was at his desk stirring his tea. He was looking over his notes from the latest case when he heard the knock on his office door.  
He looked up to find Mycroft’s assistant. He was a might surprised. He’d actually expected a text or an email, at most a call. Sending the assistant seemed a bit extreme, but he tried not to read too much into it.  
“Tea?” Greg offered. “We got coffee too.”  
She smiled a little, just enough to be friendly. “No thank you, Detective Inspector. Mr. Holmes would like to meet with you. Is that possible?”  
“Sure. When?”  
“Tonight. I’ll text you. Please know that all appointments are considered soft until the confirmation an hour before.”  
“Ditto,” he said cheekily before sipping from his ‘World’s Best Copper’ mug.   
She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she handed him a small piece of paper saying, “A list of possible locations. I’ll finalize arrangements and notify you.”  
She didn’t hesitate to walk away.  
Greg sipped from his mug again before he checked the paper on his desk.  
‘The list’ turned out to be a note from Mycroft Holmes.

DI:   
At our meeting you will keep our conversation to provable facts, only. No speculation.

 

Greg finished his tea.  
He ran the note through his paper shredder.  
Then, he went back to the back log of paper on his desk. That is, he did until he got called out on a case. A body had been found on a roof top. And, that’s where he was when Anthea called to confirm his appointment.  
“I appreciate your call, but I’m on a case.”  
“I’m aware, Detective Inspector. When you are able, go down stairs. There’s a coffee shop. How do you take your tea?”  
“When I’m going to be up a while, it’s coffee. Two sugars and milk. Thanks.”  
Greg delegated enough of the immediate work so that he could depart for a few.  
He walked into the coffee shop and instantly found Mycroft sitting by at the table farthest back. Greg walked up and sat.   
“Thanks for meeting me.”  
A moment later, a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich landed in front of Greg. The waitress smiled and received a happy, shocked expression in return.  
“If you hold true to your pattern,” Mycroft said stirring his cup of tea. “You won’t eat in favor of drinking far too much sludge like coffee.”  
“We all have our habits,” Greg said picking up half of his sandwich. He bit and found a thick sliced honey ham and smiled happily.   
“Yes,” Mycroft responded. “I also had the lovely ladies at the counter fix up a box of biscuits and several cups of tea. Anthea is seeing to their delivery.” He shrugged. “It occurred to me that I’ve rarely shown my appreciation to London’s best.”  
“I have a question,” Greg said as soon as he was able. “Did you give John money or is he going through his savings? I wasn’t really able to get a straight answer out of him.”  
Greg bit into his sandwich again.  
Mycroft sipped from his cup before he said, “Sherlock’s trust was cut off when he couldn’t be trusted. I had only just given him access again for incidentals such as food and rent when he died. The rent had just been paid. Then, John’s situation worsened. I’ve continued to provide him with the stipend.”  
“I guess that’s where he got the money.”  
Mycroft waited.  
“He’s painted the whole flat with plans to next refinish the floors.”  
Mycroft raised and eyebrow. “I suppose that Mrs. Hudson will be pleased.”  
Greg set his sandwich down. “It’s not what he’s doing. It’s why.” Greg took a deep breath. “John hit a rough patch. I went to see him. Turns out he got a leg over.”  
“I see.”  
“No. You don’t. He figured that Sherlock isn’t going to forgive him and that their relationship’s in danger.”  
Mycroft looked down at his tea cup.  
“I managed to talk him down. Problem is, what happens when Sherlock doesn’t come home?”  
“I know this is a lot to ask-  
“He’s going to harm himself, or I can act. I have two options. I can either play along and pretend that his brand new boyfriend is alive…somewhere. Or, I can slap him around and prove to him that Sherlock is dead. Both options sound painful.”  
Mycroft played with his tea cup. “How bad had the drinking gotten?”  
Greg shrugged. “It’s not too late yet. He seems to binge only when he goes round the bend.”  
“You’ve been married. How would you handle this? How did you handle this?”  
“I’m assuming we’re talking about infidelity?”  
Mycroft nodded.  
Greg sighed. “We fought the first time. Lots of yelling and carrying on. I got used to it later on. After a while, I turned to work, buried the pain, then I stopped giving a shite. This was followed by divorce.”  
“And had you cared?”  
Greg shrugged. “Probably would ‘a found him and beaten him to a pulp.”  
He didn’t have to think long before he adamantly shook his head. “Barbaric,” Mycroft said.  
“That’s the point, mate,” Greg explained. “It’s like marking your territory. You chase off the interloper and take back what’s yours.”  
Greg picked up his sandwich again. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Should I assume that this is the course of action that you want to take?”  
Mycroft tilted his head. “Tell him the truth and he could very easily become an addict. A drunk. He had the pre-disposition.”   
“If we don’t tell him it could still happen.”  
“But time will have passed. There’s a chance that he could heal. Time heals all wounds and all that.”  
Greg paused his sandwich ready for another bite. “That’s a big chance to take.”  
“Have you a better idea? I am all ears.”  
Greg bit into his sandwich.  
Mycroft sipped his tea.  
Greg finished his sandwich. He picked his cup and drank from it. “I’m not going to tell him Sherlock’s alive. I won’t help him with that self-delusion.”  
“For right now let’s just work to keep him sober. We’ll bring him around at a later point.”  
“Feels…deceptive.”  
“I learnt a long time ago that sometimes you must present a pretty lie rather than an ugly truth. People generally want to be comforted and told that everything will be just fine.”  
“So while Sherlock is…away, what does he do about this situation?”  
“Let’s see. Sherlock Holmes is in a relationship. How would he react to infidelity?”  
“Badly. That’s how he usually reacts to things. Completely over the top.” Greg swirled his coffee cup as he said, “Probably would do everything but stamp his name on John’s forehead.”  
“I agree.” Mycroft picked his tea up. “I’ll see to it.” Mycroft focused his attention on Greg. “Thank you for meeting me. I appreciate your input. And, I apologize if I dredged up bad memories.”  
“Thanks for dinner.” Greg stood. “I got a body on a roof top with a screw driver in his skull.”  
“Best of luck, Detective Inspector.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John was walking home with his latest purchase in hand. Two cans of paint. He’d thought that the colors he’d chosen were perfect but once on the wall the blue had just been too dark for Sherlock’s bedroom. So he opted to move the blue to John’s bedroom and instead chose a very light grey for Sherlock’s bedroom. He thought it was the better choice.  
His steps were sure and quick, right until he got closer to his door step. There was a black sedan parked directly outside of 221B Baker Street. Two big guys in dark glasses wearing ear pieces were standing by. All that was missing was a big neon sign announcing Mycroft’s arrival.  
John’s steps faltered. His stomach felt tight. Then, he just felt sick. He actually considered walking away.  
In the end, he sucked it up and continued moving forwards. The two big gorillas standing guard didn’t bother him. They let him pass without so much as a look. But he did hear one of them announce his arrival by name.  
John walked up the stairs. His front door was open.  
He walked into his flat and found several people present. Mycroft was there. What he didn’t expect was the two people in scrubs, and a heavily tattooed, long haired man who looked like a biker.  
“Good evening, John. Do come in.”   
Hesitantly, John waked in over the threshold. He left his purchases by the coat rack. He put his coat up, and his keys on the table.  
“If you could possibly move any slower, Doctor.”  
John presented himself before Mycroft who was sitting quite comfortably in Sherlock’s chair.  
“If you would be so kind and remove your clothing.”  
John looked at the two medical people who were gloving up.  
“There will be a physical exam followed by blood letting and other necessities. I hope that I don’t have to ask twice.”  
Sadly, John shook his head.  
He undressed and threw his clothes aside. Everything except the button on it’s gold chain.   
More tubes of blood were taken than was necessary. Swabs were taken from his mouth, anus, and penis. He was checked physically for every possible outward sign and symptom associated with an STD. He was questioned about his partners for the past three years, and corresponding sexual activity.  
When they were done, John was told he could dress.  
“Don’t bother with the shirt,” Mycroft said quite bored.  
John wandered over to the man as he wondered what was next.  
“Sit. We need to talk.”  
The tattooed biker moved John’s chair so that it was directly in front of Mycroft.  
Obediently, John sat and waited.  
He didn’t have to wait long.  
The biker rolled over to him sitting on a little stool. He had a rolling tray full of equipment, tattooing equipment.  
John looked away.  
Mycroft picked an invisible piece of lint off his pants. “It’s come to my attention that you’re drinking has started to get out of hand. I need an honest answer here, John. Do you have a problem?”  
The tattooist began shaving John’s chest. It was distracting enough that it took him a moment or two to answer. “I haven’t drunk in a while. After…after I…  
“The encounter,” Mycroft answered.  
John looked down at the floor. Instead of taking the easy way out, he said, “After I cheated on him I felt so guilty and sick inside that all I wanted was to disappear.”  
John wiped his eyes with his hand. “I still want everything to go away.”  
“When was your last drink?”  
A paper transfer was placed on his chest and smoothed into place.  
“Three days ago when Greg took away my bottle.”  
“Was it a satisfying drink?”  
“Not really.”  
“That is a shame because that was your last. Pills are off limits too. Your purchases and all prescriptions written will be monitored. Your work place will be watched. Any cash withdrawals will be questioned.”  
Mycroft gave John a little smile. “Remember that I’ve done this before. I doubt that you could be more resourceful.”  
The tattoo machine began buzzing. And then, the needle touched his skin. John jumped a little with surprise. Slowly, the shock wore off and the pain became background noise that he could ignore.  
Mycroft remained until the tattooist was done. The man gathered his equipment, piled his stool on his tray, and rolled them out of the flat.  
“A reminder. You’re not doing this alone.” And with those words Mycroft was gone.  
John remained in his chair for a time.  
When his hands stopped shaking he got up and walked to the bathroom.  
He looked in the mirror. As expected his skin was red around the tattoo where it had been irritated. A piece of plastic and antiseptic had been placed over the black lines. Seeing the tattoo was made more difficult because of it. Still, he could see three words written in black ink. They were directly over his heart.  
He reached up and traced the letters. Despite the pain it caused him, he touched each one.  
The tattoo was done in mirror image so that he could see the words, “I am here”.  
John smiled.  
He shouldn’t have, but he felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted from him. 


End file.
